


naked, clean, bloodless and mine

by tokyonightskies



Series: WidowReaper Week [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Bathing/Washing, Body Image, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Nudity, Post-Mission, Undressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 06:45:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10736316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tokyonightskies/pseuds/tokyonightskies
Summary: “I’m not even going to fit in the fucking tub,” he growls out, with renewed anger, turning away from his own dirt-specked reflection, from her bright-eyed gaze.She comes to stand behind him, presses a cold hand against his flank, solid underneath the shroud of nanobots, and states, “I don’t care.”“I don’t care,” she repeats herself firmly as she bumps into him, pushing him towards the bathtub with its discolored bronze taps and paws. “You know I don’t.”Reaper shudders—you could hook your thumb under my ribs for fuck’s sake, he wants to say, what more proof of me being a monster do you want—Reaper relents, turns off the tap and settles down into the tub. It’s quiet in the room. The bathwater’s lukewarm, probably because the boiler didn’t have enough time to heat up, but at least it’s clean, not yellowish in color from rust or too much calcium in the drains. He’s a sprawl of limbs, one knee over the edge of the tub, the other bent so there’s still room for her. The water level barely rises above his abdomen.





	naked, clean, bloodless and mine

**Author's Note:**

> WidowReaper Week Day 3. Intimacy
> 
> a touch, a word, a look, a kiss, or even more.

_"‘I’m your girl,’ she said in the dark. ‘Your girl. No matter what I’m always your girl.’"_

_Ernest Hemingway, The Garden Of Eden_

.

Since the mission went awry, Reaper’s been in a downright foul mood, skulking off the moment he got out of the getaway car. Sombra made a comment about his duel with McCree and the rebuke she got in return was curt and crude enough to stupefy her into silence. The rest of the drive continued in that same silence, so thick even a knife couldn’t slice through it. Widowmaker observed him through the rearview mirror, tense and taut like a snare wound too tight, and promptly stalked after him when he left. While Reaper usually moves with the grace of a big cat on the prowl, his movements were erratic, punctuated by sudden pauses, the clenching of fists and muscles – _teeth too_ , probably – and low growls. She learned to tell when he was frustrated, annoyed or angry. And right then, when Reaper turned to her in the sparsely-furnished living room of the safe house, with its peeling wallpaper, dusty chandelier and worn skirting boards from years ago, she knew beyond a doubt that he was _furious_.

He pulled off his mask, holding it with both -shaking- hands, head bowed.

“I couldn’t finish the ingrate off.” His voice was raspy, smoked-out. His brows furrowed. Anger tore the rigid lines of his body into shadowy shreds. “ _I should’ve…_ ” He swallowed down the rest of the sentence and gripped his mask tighter. Widowmaker could only guess the rest.

She assessed him, from the grayish quality of his skin to the patches of exposed bone – along his jaw and the gaunt of his right cheek, showing off his gritty teeth and reddish gums – to his narrowed eyes, like a viper’s. Reaper moved over to the hearth and leaned his shoulder against the mantelpiece. His hands were still shaking. There was a pile of ash in the fireplace and the stone to the back was covered with a thick layer of soot. _What a dreary place_.

“He couldn’t finish _you_ off either,” Widowmaker remarked impassively, coming further into the room.

Reaper glared at her, growling out a demand, “ _What do you want, Widowmaker?_ ”

She didn’t flinch at his harsh tone and carried the full weight of his glower as she encroached on his personal space. Could hear the birdsong of the nanobot particles whisking around her ears when they were almost body to body. Calmly took the mask from his shaking hands.

“You need to cool off, _Gabriel_.” His named sounded soft, sanctimonious even when she pronounced it – _messenger of god_ , the thought came and went in a flash – and his exhale was curt, clipped.

“I’ve been stationed here before,” Widowmaker continued, glancing at the inside of the living room. He didn’t respond. “There’s a bathroom on the second floor. With a bathtub.” Her tone of voice was detached, but she bumped her knee against his, a suggestion.

“So, _what_? I take a _long hot_ _bath_ and suddenly, _fucking…_ poof! You think my… _problems_ are gonna be gone?” His voice dropped an octave when he emphasized certain words, but the wedge between his brows and the grimace on his mouth added even more skepticism to his statement.

Widowmaker leaned in, clarified, “ _We_ are going to take a bath.”

Reaper huffed, propped his elbow on the mantelpiece and leaned his head against the palm of his hand, away from her. He was apprehensive still, drumming the sharp claw tips of his other hand onto the granite, and pointed out, “Sombra could walk in.”

“Her translocator was damaged during the mission. Repairing it…” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. Looked at him with half-hooded eyes, whispered persuasively, “Ça prend du temps, _non_?”

The expression on his face wavered, his eyes narrowed angrily again. He pressed his palm flatly onto the surface of the mantelpiece and the loud sound echoed onwards, caught between the high walls and the ceiling. The living room had decent acoustics and must’ve housed a piano once, maybe. Widowmaker took a step back, and another one, away from the fireplace, away from him. Turned towards the open doorway, framed in polished oak-wood.

And with a casual look thrown over her shoulder, she asked, “Are you coming or not?”

.

They undress under the flickering light of a lightbulb, dangling from the ceiling by twined red and blue wires. He slings his coat around the backrest of the single chair. She carefully peels the neckline of her bodysuit from her skin, baring her torso to the room. The sound of rushing water underscores the soft rustle of their uniforms, the clang of his gauntlets, the thuds of their boots, his belts, her helmet being discarded.

She unties her ponytail and he watches the long strands of hair fall along her shoulders.

Reaper catches his reflection in the grimy mirror above the sink behind her. He inhales sharply through his nose at the sight of his naked body: slabs of skin are missing - _he can see his ribs moving as he breathes_ – and the wound, where McCree’s bullet grazed him, is shrouded in a mist of particles; the sclera of his eyes a sickly, grayish color. Something ugly—but familiar rises in him, from the cavity of his chest to the roof of his mouth.

“I’m not even going to fit in the _fucking_ tub,” he growls out, with renewed anger, turning away from his own dirt-specked reflection, from her bright-eyed gaze.

She comes to stand behind him, presses a cold hand against his flank, solid underneath the shroud of nanobots, and states, “I don’t care.”

“ _I don’t care_ ,” she repeats herself firmly as she bumps into him, pushing him towards the bathtub with its discolored bronze taps and paws. “ _You know I don’t._ ”

Reaper shudders— _you could hook your thumb under my ribs for fuck’s sake_ , he wants to say, _what more proof of me being a monster do you want_ —Reaper relents, turns off the tap and settles down into the tub. It’s quiet in the room. The bathwater’s lukewarm, probably because the boiler didn’t have enough time to heat up, but at least it’s _clean_ , not yellowish in color from rust or too much calcium in the drains. He’s a sprawl of limbs, one knee over the edge of the tub, the other bent so there’s still room for her. The water level barely rises above his abdomen.

Widowmaker fits into his negative space; her body flush against his, her nose against his throat. He breathes in—and out, and hesitantly wraps his arms around her, sensitive to her cold skin under his. She puts the palm of her hand over his heart.

Staring up at the stucco ceiling overhead, Reaper feels the tension bleed out of his body and heaves a sigh.

It’s the white noise of her slow, shallow breathing that makes him sag, scuffing his shoulders against the inside of the bathtub. Widowmaker quietly drags her hand down to his wounded flank and rubs the grayish skin there clean of blood. His breath hitches when she settles her palm on his hip and presses a featherlight kiss to the junction of his neck. She brings both of her knees in the crook of his leg, soles of her feet flat against the tub, and curls into him.

Reaper breathes in the scent of her hair and closes his eyes.


End file.
